What We've Lost
by Stormcrown201
Summary: Shortly after Isleatias discovers his magic at last, Tyril awakens to hear him crying in the night, for what he has lost and what he never had the chance to be until now.


**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoy! I'm not too sure if I got Tyril's characterisation right, so please let me know what you think of him. Also, what I have to say about Undermount is my own speculation and open to revision as more chapters are released.

* * *

The sound of sniffling wakes from his shallow slumber.

With a groan, Tyril sits up and looks about him, listens. He can perceive no threats, nothing out of the ordinary; Nia, Mal, Imtura, and the nesper sleep soundly on the other side of the camp. But there is sniffling, unmistakably.

It does not take long before Tyril's eyes fall on young Isleatias, seated near the campfire. He glows within with the Light, holds a ball of Light in his hand and stares at it with a mix of awe and despair in his face. A tear glistens on his cheek, and the whites of his bright blue eyes are a little red. He does not bawl outright, but it is clear that he is getting close to it.

For a moment, Tyril hesitates, demurs. This is not his concern. Whatever the young elf's distress, he should leave him to it. But, he remembers, Isleatias has been kind to him so far, and there is a certain… _comfort_… in sharing his journey with a fellow elf, outcast or not. It behoves him to return the favour.

His mind made up, Tyril pushes aside the top of his sleeping bag and crawls out. When he has dressed in a manner a little more suitable for the present company at this time of the night, he steps over to Isleatias. The man senses him coming even amid his upset, and though his head snaps up, and he jumps, the ball of Light in his hand does not flicker.

"Tyril?" he says, hiccoughing. He wipes his face on his sleeve while maintaining the orb, no doubt trying to show Tyril some respect. Since their first meeting, Isleatias has been almost nothing short of _deferential_, recognising a social superior and behaving accordingly. (That Tyril is perhaps the first elf he has ever seen or remembers seeing only contributes to this.) "W-Was there… was there something you needed?"

"I heard you crying," Tyril tells him, tone flat and stilted. Six hells, but this is not his forte. "At a guess, it seems to be because of your magic. But I am uncertain _why_ this would cause you such upset. Assuming I strike near to the mark at all."

Isleatias sucks in a breath and goes back to staring at his little ball of Light. "You… do." He swallows, then looks up at him. "Would you sit, please? I… I have been hoping to talk about this. I mean, if that's all right with you. You don't _have_ to… but really, I would like some help…" While he speaks, an expression of such perfect misery comes over his face that Tyril sits almost without considering it.

Still, he does not stand up again after. "Go on."

"It… _is_ the magic," Isleatias says. "It is natural for you, and I know it is for me, too. All my life, I have known I _can_ do it. But I was never _able_ to. Until now. Something that comes as easily as breathing to every other elf alive is… is _foreign_ to me!" Another soft sob tears its way out of his throat while grim realisation settles in Tyril's gut. "Only today do I discover it at last!"

"Are you not happy about it?" Tyril asks, furrowing his brow as he watches Isleatias.

Isleatias' lip pushes out into a pout, and he stares past Tyril, sniffling again. Here, Tyril notices the two tablets they have collected sitting at the young elf's feet. "I… I want to be," Isleatias says. "I think I _will_ be. It's just… I wish I could say what this means for me."

"You can try." That is, at least for the moment, all the reassurance—and permission—Tyril can offer him.

At once, Isleatias' shoulders relax, though he still does not let go of his ball of Light. There is a pause as he seems to gather his thoughts. Then he speaks, words halting and soft, and while he does so, he drops his head as if ashamed. "It is just… my whole life, I have been the lone elf," he explains. "Raised by humans in a human town. I know what our people once were and what the Great War reduced us to. At least, I _think_ I know. But that is _all_ I know. Our language… I cannot speak a word of it. When Scholar Vash translated the runes in the elven temple…" Another sniffle. "I can hardly describe the _envy_ I felt. It was like poison in my veins. It turned my blood hot. But it also… made me feel weak and useless."

Here, he looks up at Tyril, while Tyril nods, showing no signs of understanding or sympathy. "Then, we met you. You brushed right past us," he says, and a weak smile breaks out over his face. "I'd have shouted at you if you were a human or orc, but you… I've never seen another elf. I was too flummoxed, too… _in awe_… to respond."

That catches his attention. "In awe? Surely you exaggerate."

Isleatias' cheeks flush deep purple, and he looks away. "No. You must understand, our kind have only ever been legends to me. A dream, even. And I always was the lone elf. Seeing someone like _me_, seeing one of our own people… amazing." At this, Tyril nods, and he pretends not to notice Isleatias staring at him with something a little different from awe in his face.

But he does notice, and that rankles. _Does he admire me for what I am to him, what I symbolise, or for who I have been?_ he wonders, and why that question stings the way it does… it is too late at night to be contemplating such things.

"Anyway," the young elf continues hastily, "that was just the start. The things I read on these tablets, what you have told me about life in Undermount… these are the first things I have learnt about our people. _My_ people. _Ever._ And I knew none of it before—I had to ask you. And, and now we're going to Undermount, and—and I can't imagine what it will be like—so many of our kind, the last remnant of our culture, our empire, and—" He sniffles again, but this soon turns into out-and-out sobbing, albeit quiet. Pity stirs within Tyril, but he stays his hand and his voice.

"I just…" Isleatias gasps, his ball of Light finally dying as he weeps. "I _shouldn't need to_ ask. I should know. And I shouldn't have taken so long to discover my magic. It should… I should have…"

"So long? How old are you, pray tell?"

Isleatias blushes again. "Twenty-five," he says.

Tyril's brow lifts, and there is a silence as he looks over Isleatias once more, sees him in a new light. "An adult by _human_ standards," the man says bitterly, but that does not deter him. He is so young, and yet here he is, leading them all…

"But not by ours. You have plenty of time to learn yet," Tyril tells him. Though there is no softness in his words, no comfort, Isleatias still visibly brightens at them and nods as he considers them. "By _elven_ standards, you have only suffered a delay. It would put you at a slight disadvantage in Undermount, but there are worse things."

A small smile tugs at the corners of Isleatias' mouth when he says this. "That is… I am glad to hear it. Thank you."

In response, Tyril bows his head. "We have spoken already of what I hope will happen at Undermount," he says after a moment. "What of you? What do you hope will happen, aside from us obtaining the Shard?"

Isleatias answers almost at once. "I hope… I hope to find some answers about my parents," he says. "If that is possible. They died before I could remember them, and I know they were outcasts, but not how many generations removed from Undermount I am. And I hope… I hope to find someone who will teach me the basics of our culture, our language, our magic. I even hope to find a place with one of the houses, though I… I will not get my hopes up." His smile falters, and the gloom comes over him again.

Tyril looks at him. "You could have asked me if you wished to learn the basics," he says, a little more gently than before. "I admit there is a certain comfort in discussing these matters with a fellow elf. And I am surprised to hear you wish to join one of our houses. Is your home not in Riverbend, with Kade?"

It is rather remarkable to observe the expressiveness of the youth's face. Despondency now shifts to guilt, and Isleatias looks away, shifting uncomfortably. "I never belonged in Riverbend," he murmurs. "I love Kade, and I would see him back. But I will outlive him by centuries, anyway. Nothing will tie me to Riverbend once he is dead. And in Riverbend, I was always… _aware_ of my status as an outsider. It got tiring after a while. Undermount is a dream to me, an idea, but I would be happy at even the lowest rung of its society if it meant I could be among our people at last. But would I be worthy of being there when I am nothing more than an imposter? A human in elven skin?" His words turn bitter again.

Tyril, thrown, stares at him. "An imposter? I beg your pardon?"

"You heard what I said. How could I be worthy of calling myself an elf when I know nothing of us?" Isleatias stands and begins to pace around the fire. His shoulders are slumped, but tense; his jaw is set; he narrows his eyes and scratches his arms as if they itch; there is unease and discomfort in every line of him. "You've told me a little of what Undermount is like. What would they want to do with an 'elf' who has no knowledge of the proper social customs or cues, or the language, or any magic, or… or anything? Won't they just turn me away at the door? I was—"

"Our numbers are too few for us to turn others away," Tyril interrupts. He pauses, realising that the way he phrased his words makes the elves of Undermount seem pragmatic more than anything. "You would be at a disadvantage, but we would welcome you, as we do other children of outcasts. That you are still very young would only help your case."

Isleatias stops where he stands and looks at him, eyes widening, pleading. "Is that what you think?"

Tyril answers him almost at once. "You are a stripling, and you were born outside Undermount to parents who died before you could know them. That you are aware of so little—that is not your fault, and you should not be judged for it."

For the third time, Isleatias blushes, and he hugs himself as he looks away. "Thank you," he mumbles, but he does not smile.

"Does that help?"

"A little." He sighs and paces again, running his hands through his hair. "I just wish I could make you understand my position. Growing up, I was always keenly aware of being an elf among humans, an oddity. I always felt different. But ultimately, I was raised with human social cues, human norms, human everything. I fear that when we get to Undermount, I'll stick out like a sore thumb. An elf acting like a human… maybe it's not my fault, but what right have I got to call myself an _elf_ when my ears and skin colour are all that I have to prove it? Wouldn't… wouldn't our… _your_ people agree?"

It is almost wrenching to see the man struggle, to watch his pacing and the trembling of his hands, to observe the utter self-loathing crossing over his face. "_I_ don't, for what little it's worth," Tyril tells him. Where these words come from, why he says them beyond needing to keep the man focused, he is uncertain. "You're as much an elf as the rest of us, as far as I can see it. Some of us might not agree, but most of us would only look at you and see another elf. You have little to fear on that front."

Finally, Isleatias manages a stronger smile, and some of the tension goes out of his muscles, though Tyril knows a few words will not be enough to fix such deep-seated issues. "Thank you," he says. "That means a lot. It is good to hear such words from you."

Tyril raises an eyebrow. "Because I am the first elf that you have ever seen, or because those words come from me?" he asks. The words come out sharp and cutting, perhaps more so than they should have, and Isleatias' smile vanishes. He blushes again, even darker than before, and looks away, shifting on his feet.

"… Both, I guess," he admits after a long pause. "I am sorry. I don't want to put you on a pedestal and, uh, idolise you, I guess… but it's hard to separate _you_ from what you are, just as it's hard to forget the position I'm in. I really don't want to—look, all I can say is I am _trying_ to see you, and not just _another elf_. I swear it." His eyes have gone wide and pleading again, and he stares at Tyril with desperation in his face. After a lifetime in Undermount, Tyril can sense when someone is being honest, and this is the picture of it, so he concedes with a nod and a grudging sigh. Nevertheless, while the words mollify him, the idea that Isleatias only sees another elf still stings.

Why should it, though? That's all the humans see. Why should it anger him coming from another elf? Why should he wonder, whenever Isleatias defers to him and whenever he catches him staring at him with open awe in his face, whether he is deferring to and in awe of _him_ or merely another elf?

"I'm wondering," Isleatias murmurs after an awkward pause, "when you return to Undermount in the company of an orc and two humans, led by an _underage_ elf… will that cause discussion?"

"Some discussion, yes," Tyril says stiffly. "We would welcome you, as I said, but, my deferring to you would not be looked upon well. Either you would be seen as overstepping your rank, or I would be seen as demeaning myself. I don't suppose you need the reminder, but for both our sakes, you'll let me take some control in Undermount."

Isleatias nods, not even debating it—of course. A wry smile crosses his face. "Mal will love that," he says.

Tyril almost snorts. "I know whose opinions I care about. His is not one of them. It will be even less relevant in Undermount."

At that, Isleatias lets out the beginnings of a shout of laughter, which he quickly chokes down and covers up with his hand to keep from awaking the others. "Are all our kind so blunt, or is it just you?" he asks, with a distinct note of teasing.

For the third time in as many days, Tyril bites his lip and struggles not to smile. Looking away from Isleatias and into the flickering flames helps with that, though he's uncertain why he needs to do so at all. "It is mostly just me," he admits after a moment. "Our politics do not allow for such honesty, most of the time. At home, everything is coated in double-meanings and sweet-smelling poison. It is nightmarish to deal with even after years of experience."

Much to his total lack of surprise, Isleatias does not appear at all deterred by this. Indeed, he gobbles up the information with all the eagerness of a puppy. "Is there anything you can tell me about how I should greet people?" he asks. "Any words I should use? I want to make a good first impression, you understand…"

Tyril glances up at the sky, still dark and glittering with stars. "I can, but it is late. I suspect such lessons would be better absorbed in the morning, unless you happen to be some creature of the night I don't know about."

Isleatias laughs again. "No, no. That's a good point. I'm sorry I kept you awake—I just lost track of time."

"Luckily for you, the conversation was worth having." Tyril admits to this only grudgingly. But the smile that lights up Isleatias' face and brings into a sparkle into his brilliant blue eyes is almost—_almost_—worth the slight loss of pride. (No, it's not, and where in the six hells did that come from, anyway?)

"High praise indeed," Isleatias says. "Well, thank you for listening, Tyril. I can't imagine an elf with an identity crisis was something you ever suspected you'd need to deal with on your journey. I… I'm glad you were patient with me."

Tyril shrugs slightly and gets to his feet. "It was little trouble. If nothing else, I _believe_ we need you focused."

Isleatias smiles again, but this time, it seems a little strained, and in truth, Tyril feels the sting of those words as well. Is that all it is? Keeping him focused? It should be, so why does some insane part of him insist on saying that it isn't? What's got into him? Is it just the stress that comes with the thought of returning to Undermount, or a natural part of being in the company of another elf after so long, outcast or not?

"One more thing," he says, as he recalls what Isleatias had said about Kade and Riverbend. Isleatias nods as he also stands. "You've said before you're on this journey so you can save your brother. But I wonder, given all that you've said tonight—is that the only reason you're doing it?"

There's a brief pause, in which Isleatias blows out a long breath and looks away again, shoving his hands in his pockets. "No. Not really. It's not even the main reason, to tell the truth." A hint of shame seems to stain his words, but also a hint of certainty, as if he knows without a doubt that his reasons are good.

"Indeed?"

"It's simple," Isleatias says. "And similar to your reasons, I guess. The Shadow Court already destroyed our people once. And now it seems they're trying to come _back_. Whatever I may be, outcast or not, a real elf or a human in elven skin, I can't let that happen again. Call me arrogant, if you will, for wanting to defend people I've never known, but…"

"No, that is a commendable attitude," Tyril tells him, again struggling not to smile. "Presuming our people believe our warnings, they would approve."

Isleatias glances up at him. "Presuming? Meaning they might not?"

Tyril blows out a long breath and shakes his head. "I'm uncertain if we'll be ready to face even the _concept_ of the Shadow Court returning. It might mean the end of our people even if we win. I suspect many of us will prefer to sit in Undermount and let the humans handle it. And with the Shard at Undermount…"

Isleatias cottons on at once—smart man. His eyes widen. "If it's in someone's possession… you think they could be corrupted? Spreading complacency and fear, keeping the elves from acting?"

Tyril nods grimly. "The thought has crossed my mind. But we will not know for certain until we reach Undermount."

"So, a trip through the Deadwood to a city-state where the Shard may be doing _gods_ only know what to the leaders of a people who understandably may not want to risk everything to defeat the people who destroyed their empire the _last_ time around," Isleatias says. He shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"An accurate summation, to be sure," Tyril admits.

"Yeah. Sure. Okay. Why not? Six bloody hells!" A somewhat crazed grin breaks out over the young elf's face as he runs his hands over it, and he shakes his head again. "On that cheerful note, I think I'm going to call it a night. It's the end of my watch, anyway."

"Fair enough." Then, on impulse, he murmurs the elven equivalent of 'good night'.

When Isleatias shoots him a blank look, he calmly explains, "That is how we say good night, if you wish to start learning the language."

Isleatias brightens at once, his manic grin turning into something far more genuine. He repeats the words, and though he mangles them, the effort is at least sincere. No need to mention yet that greetings vary between classes, between social superiors and inferiors—there is a time and a place for everything.

Still, what should it matter to him, Tyril wonders as he settles into his sleeping bag again while Isleatias wakes Nia, if the young elf knows so little? Teaching is not his forte, he has far greater concerns than one stripling of an outcast, and it is not as if educating one person will defeat the Shadow Court or bring back all that was lost. So why should he be trying now?

The question remains on his mind as he drifts back into an uneasy sleep. In the morning, it lingers still.


End file.
